


Odd Men Out

by RimauSuaLay



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RimauSuaLay/pseuds/RimauSuaLay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even between spies, there were rules about secrets and personal comfort zones, and Peter usually knew exactly what games he was playing. Except when it came to George Smiley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odd Men Out

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by Wolfsbride and Fiona. The story is based solely on the 2011 movie!

It was a miserable ending to the week; a rainy Friday afternoon, clouds hanging low over the city, turning everything gray and dreary. 

Peter Guillam thought it was rather appropriate. 

Turning away from the papers in front of him, he stared out the window, seeing nothing beyond the slick slide of water against glass. He had forms to fill out, reports to read, but right now, they seemed as insignificant as the rain. None of it _mattered_ , none of it was urgent despite the backlog, and there was nothing to do, really, but to wait. Wait for the rain to end, wait for the weekend. 

Things might be changing, but life felt exactly the same as before. 

After all the excitement of the past few weeks, Peter found it odd to be back at his desk, working with the familiar reports. It was almost like nothing had happened, like there had been no mole working inside the Circus, no secret mission. There was upheaval on the fifth floor, rumours everywhere, and yet everyday work was the same. Spying on the Soviets, negotiating with the Yanks in a mutual game of more or less friendly deception and one-upmanship. 

He was back where he'd never thought he wanted to be, doing what he did best. Once, he'd wanted to be a field agent. All the deception he'd faced in Africa, all those pointless deaths, it had irrevocably changed things for him. Sitting behind a desk brought order and a small amount of predictability to life, but it also gave him the kind of control he'd never had before. It made it easier to face his reflection in the mirror these days. 

His days were full of meetings he needed to organize, plans other people would execute. The information he sorted through and then handed out made it possible for his scalp hunters to do their jobs well; it also kept most of them alive. He could make damn sure his people had some decent backup when needed, even though he wasn't in the field anymore. 

He still missed it sometimes. 

Not that long ago, he'd been crouching by the fence in the dark, watching cars drive down the nondescript street. Waiting for the traitor, holding a gun in his hand. Adrenaline coursing through his veins as he waited for the confrontation that never really came. 

Just bitter disappointment and disillusionment. 

Peter was better off here. This small corner of the Circus was what his life was all about, and he was a proper agent, reaching out for contacts, protecting their own. 

Incredible how hard it was to find the thought comforting anymore. 

He'd always been proud of his punctuality, his ability to keep details in mind and read through polite phrases and half-truths. He knew some of his colleagues saw it as being fussy, but he preferred to call it propriety. Everything was in the details after all. But today, he found it difficult to find a reason to keep his mind on the work. It might all be for nothing after all. 

Peter turned back to the report he'd been reading. He couldn't remember who had written it and what it was about, couldn't recall the mission even when he read through the words again. 

It was time to stop pretending he was concentrating on his reading. Sloppy work would get people in the field killed. It was best to just go home; collect his coat and bag and walk down the stairs into the pouring rain. He had no plans beyond that, his empty flat as uninviting as this small cubicle at work. 

Sighing, he put the files away before leaving. 

Peter passed a few familiar faces on his way out, most of the other men forcing a smile and a greeting. He returned every smile with one of his own, nodding at their meaningless words. This was their new armour against all evil, the symbol of their trade, like the trench coat, the leather bag. Inside the Circus, everyone was smiling these days; they were all glad things were working out, happy that the mole had been caught. Some of the smiles even looked close to genuine. 

God, he was tired. 

"Peter. Leaving so early?" 

Blinking at the familiar teasing voice, Peter looked to his right. Somehow he'd managed to walk right past people without even seeing them. 

As always when looking at him, Sal had a hopeful expression on her face, her eyes wide. So easy to read, her every thought and emotion so painfully obvious. "Going away for the weekend?" Once again an invitation for a rejection. 

"I have some errands to run." He nodded his head a little, walking on. There was most likely a disappointed, almost sad expression on her face, and he didn't wish to face that right now. It was all a bit too close to home; he could never be what she wanted him to be. He could barely be true to himself. 

Maze-like corridors and stairs. He didn't want to take the lift. There might be someone there, and the last thing he needed was to be boxed in with a colleague. A nod and a smile to Bryant would be enough, and he never asked, never said anything but polite goodbyes. 

His hand tightening on the handle of his bag, Peter forced himself to take the stairs one at the time. 

"Mr. Guillam." 

God, his face was going to hurt from all these fake smiles. Peter looked at the old man, lips twisting, but he could tell it wasn't much of a smile after all. "See you on Monday, Bryant," he muttered. 

"There's a message for you, Mr. Guillam." The old doorman reached for a scrap of paper and then handed it out. 

Peter was already heading for the gate, and the unexpected words made him falter, shoe scraping on the floor, the sound it made jarring at his nerves. He turned around, suddenly feeling like he was about to get caught in the middle of snooping around somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. "A message?" 

"Yes, sir. From Mr. Smiley." 

Moving on autopilot, Peter took the message, nodding at Bryant without looking down at the paper. "Thank you." It was still raining outside, but he didn't want to read the note here in the Circus, where everything felt unreal these days. 

People outside were rushing by, some holding a newspaper overhead, some striding along with an umbrella firmly in hand. Peter took a deep breath, pausing to look up and down the street as always, and then started walking. His car was parked a few streets away, waiting for him, and he walked straight towards it, not bothering to avoid any of the puddles, not taking shelter underneath any of the awnings. 

Inside his car, finally away from the rain, he took a deep breath, wiping his hand up his face, brushing wet hair to the side. The folded paper was damp from the rain, and he unfolded it carefully. There were two lines, written in neat, easily recognizable handwriting. 

' _Come on over. We need to talk._ ' 

It wasn't signed. 

Sighing, Peter shook his head. Once a spy always a spy, it seemed. 

There were more dangerous places on earth than George Smiley's flat, but at the moment, Peter couldn't name any. He was tired and this gray and wet weather was making him oddly melancholy. Maybe he should simply ignore the note; George wasn't his boss anymore, so he wasn't under any obligation to answer his call. 

Peter folded the note back in two and slipped it into his pocket. Then he reached for the ignition. 

*

The door opened a few moments after his knock, and it was clear George had been waiting for him. "Peter." 

"George." It was strange to be here at the man's door. Peter was reminded of the first time he'd come here, waiting awkwardly in the doorway while George gathered his coat and bag. He'd been running an errand for Oliver Lacon, and George had been retired, simple as that. 

Everything had been so clear back then. Standing here had been the last ordinary moment before his whole world had started to spiral out of control. 

He slipped inside and felt the door closing behind him, the warmth in the flat a welcome change from the chill outside. 

"Here," George said, handing him a coat hanger. 

Peter removed his wet overcoat and shook it before hanging it up to dry. Feeling still a bit damp, he took off his suit jacket as well. "Thanks." His shoes were wet as well, so he crouched down to remove them. It was a bit awkward to walk around only in his socks, but it would be worse to leave wet and muddy footsteps all over the floor. 

He couldn't help looking around as he stepped further inside, gaze noticing the subtle changes here and there. The slender, feminine umbrella leaning against the wall next to the door was gone. A pile of thick folders lay on the table; the markings on the cover showing the secrets inside were quite above his pay grade. He didn't know what it all meant. They hadn't exactly talked about future career options. 

The flat was quiet. Last time there had been a radio programme in the background, creating an illusion of company, of life. Yet, the silence wasn't oppressive. Peter didn't want to make too many assumptions about everything he saw and heard, or didn't hear, but he couldn't help hoping that Ann Smiley's ghost had finally been laid to rest. 

Following George to the lounge, Peter hesitated for just a moment by the sofa as George went to grab two glasses and a bottle. In their unofficial headquarters at the hotel or even at Control's old flat, he would have felt comfortable enough to lounge anywhere without a second thought about propriety. Things had clearly changed, a feeling of unease making him suddenly uncomfortable. 

"Do sit down," George said, making a gesture that encompassed the whole room. "It's a bit late for formalities, don't you think?" 

Peter ducked his head slightly, but waited for George to head for the sofa before taking the chair himself. He watched George pour small measures of Scotch in the two glasses. The bottle was then firmly placed on the side table, as if to indicate this time it wasn't necessary to empty it to have a conversation. 

For some reason that made Peter relax. 

"You look well," Peter said, smiling just a little. He meant it; George looked good. Not as tired as he had in the past. 

Holding out a glass to him, George said, "I've been sleeping better lately." 

Sometimes it surprised Peter how easily George could read through his rather innocent words. Then again, most of the time he expected it, almost looked forward to it. "Thanks," he muttered, accepting the offered drink carefully. 

He noticed George didn't drink from his glass either, holding it in a practiced relaxed grip, letting the liquid swirl around in lazy circles. 

They sat in silence for a moment. Peter wondered if he was supposed to ask why he was here, but for some reason it felt important to him to have George start this conversation. He was familiar with interrogation techniques, and maybe with someone else, the silence would be uncomfortable. It was easy to sit here and watch George. He didn't want to think about how much he'd missed this even after just a few days. 

"How are things at the Circus?" George asked, breaking the silence. 

So many things Peter could say to that, and he couldn't think of anything to describe the utter blandness of the past days. "Changing," he said finally. "There are lots of rumours flying around, about the future, and no one above the fourth floor is saying anything. Alwyn and his people down at the archive have been working around the clock, and I..." 

There was a long pause. 

None of it really mattered. Peter was certain George didn't want to hear about his long days at the office, his lonely evenings at home never anything but an interlude before another meaningless day at work. Or about the way he'd lost something that night seeing Bill Haydon sitting so calmly in the chair at the London House. Or even about the future, of his part in the big game, whatever that might be. 

George shifted on the sofa a little, leaning forward. "And you?" It was a compelling prompt, like this really was an interrogation instead of a conversation. 

For just a moment Peter resented it, and then, as quickly as it had come, the resentment was gone. Of course. This was why he was here. How kind of George to offer him the chance to find some closure. Smiling wryly, he muttered, "And I am left to wonder if it'll ever be the same again." 

"Probably not. Things are changing. That's the one thing Percy got right, though he went for it the wrong way." George's gaze turned distant for just a moment. "They all did, and some of them paid for it more than the others." 

Peter nodded. "Yes." He could remember the way Esterhase had turned into a sobbing mess. Some days it bothered him how the events at the small airstrip didn't haunt him. It was just a memory among dozens of others. Maybe they would all end up paying for what had happened. 

In a way, he supposed, they already were. 

"So what do you think, Peter? What will you do when things change?" 

That was the question, wasn't it? Existential, to the point, and after all these years at the Circus, it sounded almost like Hamlet's dilemma. "I don't know," Peter said, the absolute truth. "I... I know I never want to spy on our own again. I don't want to doubt them, I don't want to..." He made a gesture with his hand, knowing he could never express what it had been like in the archive, staring at the folders, knowing he could be caught by his own people and that they'd be right to call him a... 

George raised an eyebrow a little. 

No. This wasn't what they should be talking about. Peter sighed. "Not that it really matters now. No one knows if we'll have a new Control next week, if there are any familiar faces on the fifth floor. Quite frankly, I don't even know if I have a job left." 

Something in the indulgent look on George's face made Peter wonder if he was being laughed at. 

"I doubt you have to worry about that." 

The warmth in his voice was so familiar; Peter could feel his body start to relax. Like George had told him to stop worrying and as always, Peter would obey. Slowly, he put the glass on the table and then squeezed his left hand into a fist, refusing to follow the old pattern anymore. 

"Why am I here, George?" Peter asked, voice calm and even. "Your message said we need to talk. About what?" This couldn't be it. 

After a short silence, George sighed. "I believe there are things you and I need to discuss. About..." He made a slight gesture with his hand. "Tinker, Tailor. And all the things surrounding it. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for us to have a little talk. It's not an order; I'm not your boss at the moment." 

One more thing that had changed, and definitely for the worse. Peter disliked the idea of having someone else to rely on, someone whose loyalties could be hidden under layers of impenetrable facades. He had no illusions about this man, but at least one thing had always been clear to him. 

George Smiley's picture taped to a chess piece had been almost laughable. A joke. Peter wondered if Control had even bothered to give him a code name. What was left anyway? Certainly not Thief. Beggarman would have been too cruel, too close to the mark perhaps. 

Knowing in his bones that this man was to be trusted had been a relief of sorts. Something solid. In reality, he had been Smiley's man for these past weeks, and it had been so easy to slip into that position, as though he'd waited for something like that for years. The second best secret agent in the whole wide world? No. He refused to think of himself as a parody. More like a man of a different era, like George had been Control's man. 

But then again that wasn't really true, now was it? 

"Tell me. Was there anything you kept wondering about what we did? Any... regrets?" There was a slight pause before the last word, and it was clear George didn't like the taste of it. 

Yes. Always. 

"Not really, no." Smiling slightly, convincingly, Peter reached out for his glass. 

"Peter." 

Fingers barely touching the glass, Peter stopped. He looked away from his untouched drink at George. He could tell it wasn't an admonition, and there was no disappointment in George's eyes. But it was clear they both knew he was lying. 

Even without the job at the Circus, wasn't that what he'd been doing all his life? 

Peter glanced down at the carpet. It was muted brown, like everything else in here. Like the man sitting across the room. "I have been thinking..." He closed his mouth, because how could he continue? It was a job, like any other, and George owed him no explanation, none whatsoever. All the questions he had were dangerous, of things that must never be mentioned out loud, even if they both knew them already. 

_Spied on my own people because of you_. All that rage and guilt and Ricki Tarr had been a convenient outlet. 

"Whatever you need to ask, Peter," George said, pausing for a moment. "You can. This is the time." 

A reward to a loyal lapdog or something else? Peter didn't care. Nothing was convenient anymore, and nothing really mattered. "I've been thinking about the things you said. From the beginning. How you needed me to do things for _you_ , how you..." He shook his head. All the little things, the way George stopped him outside the hotel, hand on his arm, the apparent trust, the confessions. The quiet musings, the shared looks. How could he put that into words? "You knew all along, didn't you?" 

"Of your preferences? Yes, I did." 

Peter didn't even try to smile at that, his face feeling foreign to him. It was the first time it was said out loud, this one thing he'd always thought would be the end of his world if it ever came out in the open. Looking up at George, he forced out, "Of course you did. _My preferences_." That was bad enough. The rest was worse. "How about the rest of it?" 

"I..." And this time the pause didn't seem to be intentional, a practiced stall. George looked uncomfortable, just a flicker in his eyes, before it was back to the neutral mask. 

But it had been there, the moment of genuine emotion. 

Now if only Peter could put a name to it. 

Sighing, Peter leaned back. "Of course you knew. How could you not? The real question, I think, is; did you choose me because of it? Did you... play me from the beginning?" The words tasted of ash. 

Had George thought of him like he thought of Sal? That poor lovesick fool, who was waiting for something she could never have. Peter had long ago resigned himself to the fact that there would never be a deeper connection between him and George, the weeks of working together to flush out the mole already more than he'd ever dared to dream. Pity would destroy that, turn it into something ugly. 

George let out a deep breath, but it revealed nothing. "And what if I did?" He asked, voice calm. "What if I knew from the beginning and used the knowledge to my advantage, like we always do?" 

That was not a confirmation, and yet not a denial either. Peter refused to get angry, pushing the swell of emotion down. It wasn't easy, mostly because underneath the anger was a wave of hurt so deep it was almost paralyzing. 

"What difference would it possibly make now?" 

Peter's fingers twitched, just a little. Because that was the question he'd tried to avoid ever since he walked out of the Circus earlier. "I have always admired you." It came out so easily. "When you were the Control's shadow, when all I could do was to say empty platitudes to you and call you Mr. Smiley. And now this whole thing with the mole... All of it. Just a bloody mess, if you ask me." 

This time the hum from George was easily interpreted as a yes. 

"We won, but we all lost in the end. Losses even you couldn't control." Never a cruel man, Peter still had to say it all out loud. "People we worked with, Ricki's..." And maybe there is no word for what Ricki lost after all. 

George looked into distance again, his gaze revealing nothing. "Yes." 

"You knew about the woman when we sent Ricki to Paris." Not a question, for this Peter knew without a doubt. He'd guessed it himself from bits and pieces George had mentioned of Jim Prideaux's story, and the surprisingly bad way George had lied to poor Ricki had just been a confirmation. "You knew she was dead." 

For some reason George chose to take it as a real question anyway. "I did." He nodded. 

"There was nothing you could do to prevent that loss." Peter didn't say anything about his own. 

"No." George's gaze turned to Peter; his eyes dark and sharp. He could probably see through every defense, every pretense. All the unasked questions, all the hidden half-truths. "But I am sorry anyway. For his loss and yours." 

Peter couldn't pretend he didn't know what George meant. He was sorry too. What he'd shared with Richard had been more about convenience than love, but that might have changed if they had been given more time and less secrets. "Nothing you could have done about that either." His lips felt numb as he said that, like tidying up this little secret was an acceptable loss. Maybe it was. After all, he'd never questioned his decision to do as George suggested. 

Therein lay the problem. 

But it was his problem to deal with. "Maybe we should leave it at that," Peter offered musingly. He could indeed think of this as the conclusion. George's apology was more than enough. More than he'd ever expected. 

"No," George said immediately, command behind the word. "I don't believe this conversation is over yet. Do you?" 

Peter opened his mouth, and then closed it again, lips pressed tight into an unhappy line. No, the conversation wasn't over, but he was quite certain they shouldn't be having it in the first place. 

He waited, the silence stretching around them. George seemed perfectly willing to let him wait for as long as he wanted to. It was too close to what he faced every day at work, yet different enough. Everything between them was different. 

"Everything we did... it was a part of the game, I know that. Everything we _do_. But I need to know if you played me like we do with anyone. Carefully chosen words and flattery are a part of everyday work." Peter paused for a moment, his mouth suddenly dry. "Was it that, or was it something more, a... seduction?" 

The word hung there in the air between them, like smoke from one of Peter's cigarettes. 

"Does it matter?" Genuine curiosity in George's voice now. 

Peter closed his eyes for a second. No, it didn't matter, and it didn't change anything. Things were already so far out of his control, he couldn't do this. Yet, how could he not? Come Monday, he could be out of work, or worse, he could still go to Circus, to see Alleline and Bland sit around the table. It would mean everything they'd done was for nothing. All he could do was to cling to hope, to everything that was real, and George Smiley had to be the most real person he knew. 

"Yes. It does." 

George's head tilted to the side just a little. "Why?" 

They both knew the answer, Peter was certain of that. Maybe it was more about decisions and desperation, but right now he had nothing left. "Because if you chose to use it against me like that. Use my foolish schoolboy crush against me." He had to stop there, throat convulsing once, twice, like he was fighting against suffocation. It had been a long time since he last hated himself like this. "You should bloody well finish what you started!" 

That made George blink. The look in his eyes softened, from curious to amused, and then his lips twisted a little, into a genuine smile. "You just might be the most courageous man I have ever met, Peter." 

If that were true, then why did Peter's hands tremble so? He let out a snort of laughter, and the sound hurt even his own ears. 

"The truth is," George said quietly, leaning back a little. "I'm not sure myself." 

Peter accepted that as the answer. As the truth? He'd have to think about that. 

"I don't like playing with peoples' emotions. When it's necessary, we do what we have to. But with you? No. I never thought about using that against you." Almost like thinking out loud, George kept muttering, "Maybe if you'd given me a reason to doubt your loyalty." His gaze sharpened again. "But then we wouldn't be having this conversation." 

Astonishment surged through Peter, and he didn't bother to even try to keep his expression under control. He never actually thought George would say he had calculated every word, every gesture, or played him like the fool he sometimes felt like. His outburst had been just that; angry words. Most of the anger was aimed at himself. 

This was... different. A sliver of hope, sharp as a blade. Anger was easier, it would hurt less in the end. 

He couldn't think of anything to say. Any words would come out wrong. 

George lifted the glass up, but only to twirl the scotch around and around, staring at the liquid. "Of course I knew. I've known it for a long time, suspected it even before you left for North Africa. When I walked out of the Circus with Control for the last time, everyone was staring at him. You were the only one looking at me, and the way you looked... Your one moment of weakness, I should say. I doubt anyone else caught that." 

"Oh." It was the one thing Peter hadn't expected. 

"You were never obvious, if that helps. And the times you seemed a bit too eager to follow me, it could have been because of your age, the need to prove yourself." George's words were precise, dissecting through the matter like he was talking about someone else. "Playing those kinds of games with someone you should depend on is a double edged sword, really. To use that as a basis of a work relationship... Where is the trust? When does loyalty turn into bitterness?" 

Esterhase's pitiful claims of his loyalty echoed in Peter's mind, and he understood all too well what George meant. "Maybe it's in the balance between intent and act," he mused out loud. "Promises made and promises kept." And George had certainly never made any promises. 

George raised his glass a little as a salute, and then brought it to his lips, tilting it just enough to take one sip of the scotch. 

"So..." There was only one question left. "Where does that leave us?" Peter already knew where he stood, but other than that, anything was possible. 

"Us? It leaves you wondering what happens next, like you're wondering about everything right now, I'd say. Me? It leaves me..." George fell silent. 

Though the silence stretched, Peter felt no need to fill it with words. It had been like this before, just the two of them in a room, talking about the very mundane and the very personal, different conversations melting into one almost too easily. There was that familiar illusion of intimacy present in the room, enforced by the pensive expression on George's face. 

"I guess it leaves me alone with far too many memories. Of an age that's now gone and will never return, even if I wanted it to. And I don't think I want it to, not anymore." 

Peter had never thought George to be one to have wistful thoughts about the good old times. Yet the words sounded hollow, like there had been desperate hope for something and now it was all gone forever. 

Raising his glass again, George stared at his drink and said, "And I hope you believe me when I say, I have absolutely no idea where it leaves us." 

"George," Peter said, getting to his feet in one fluid movement. The hair at the back of his neck was prickling, like he could sense some unknown danger in the room. 

"Would you honestly want that?" George asked. He put the glass on the table, moving slowly, and then steepled his fingers together in his lap. "A... seduction?" 

Peter could only stare at him, at the bland, ordinary man most people passed by without ever even noticing he was there. He was well aware that George was probably the most dangerous man he'd ever known; a man of innumerable secrets, who had fought in a real war, and yet it rarely showed in him. George made no empty threats, rarely raised his voice and showed no open aggression. It was still there, the steady, unstoppable power. "Maybe." 

"Peter..." 

It was absurd how the slight admonition in George's voice could make him feel like this. "I don't want sweet nothings or empty promises, George. It's not a game." 

George sighed, shaking his head a little, like it made absolutely no sense. "And yet you would want..." 

How could that even be a real question? "Yes." 

This wasn't what Peter had imagined when he sat down across from George, a glass in hand. Maybe a few words about the work, some softer, more personal ones that could be interpreted as anything one wished; a show of friendship, an apology, even gratitude. Never this foolish admission of things that were still far too close to being illegal. 

The recklessness of his own actions made Peter feel oddly light. He waited for the dread that would inevitably follow, but it never came. 

"I'm an old man, Peter," George said quietly, making no movements, like he was frozen still. 

It sounded sad and tired, like everything seemed to be in this house. Peter nodded, hair flopping over his forehead. "I think we both know that is not an issue here. You know how I feel about older men." The closest he'd ever come to just saying it. Schoolboy crushes meant nothing, everyone had those. But this? "You know how I feel about you." 

"Do I?" It came out as a sigh. "I thought I knew so many things." 

"Yes, you do." Peter took a step closer to George, his hand twitching but not reaching out. 

George's gaze never wavered from him. He didn't say a word, just sat there, watching. Waiting. 

Peter couldn't move. He wanted so many things, needed to do something, and yet it was impossible to make a decision right now. Taking the final step, initiating something beyond simple friendship was difficult enough when he knew the want was mutual. He had absolutely no idea what George wanted him to do, and he was half afraid that if he tried to say something, the words would come out desperate. 

"Ann came to see me after I... After." 

The soft words came as a surprise. Peter took a deep breath, cursing his own foolishness. "Oh." He wanted to cross his arms over his chest, to keep away the chill the words brought with them, but he knew the gesture would just make him look more like a child in need of a hug. 

George looked past him, like he was talking to himself, remembering. "So many things I wanted to say to her, so many things I wanted to hear, and in the end the only thing we had left to say to each other was goodbye." 

Blinking, Peter stared down at him. Was this all about regrets then? About the things neither of them could have? If so, George was more cruel than he could have ever imagined. He was ruthless, yes, but not really cruel. 

"I wonder why it was so easy to say it now, when I never could say it before," George said, lips barely moving. Then he shook his head minutely, like he was shaking off droplets of water after a long swim, and focused his eyes on Peter. 

George couldn't mean it the way it sounded. 

The silence stretched long and strangely uncomfortable, George sitting relaxed on the couch, Peter trapped between the urge to step forward and the need to retreat. 

"You should probably sit down, Peter," George finally said. 

Peter nodded slightly. They could keep talking about insignificant things, and make this nothing but another quiet evening spent together, contemplating life. This was not a game, and for some reason that was enough for him. 

Looking back over his shoulder, Peter hesitated, indecisive. He didn't want to take the few steps back and sit in the chair, but sitting next to George on the sofa might seem too calculated and forward. The only options left were the small table right in front of George, so close their knees would touch, or the floor at George's feet. Too intimate, too submissive, too obviously suggestive. 

"Here on the sofa is fine." With a very knowing look in his eyes, George patted the cushion to his right. 

Peter tugged at his trousers as he sat, gaze firmly on his own hands. 

"Peter..." 

The sound of his own name made Peter turn his head, and then he almost flinched back as George's hand rose slowly to his face. Eyes wide, he watched the hand move, noticing the calluses on the palm and a faint tremor in the elegant fingers. Something had changed, and it took Peter a moment to realize it was the absence of the simple golden wedding band that had always seemed a part of the man, a reminder of what Peter could never have. So much could be read in that simple movement, but Peter couldn't tell what it meant. It was frustrating, to see things so clearly and still be in the dark. 

Peter swallowed as George's fingers brushed against his forehead, trailing down his face, thumb moving in gentle circles over his cheekbone. "George..." He was really trying not to do anything rash, but this felt too much like a permission. Like an invitation. 

There was curiosity in George's eyes as he moved his fingers back up, the touch light as a whisper. "I think if you are going to kiss me, now would be the perfect time for that." 

Peter was leaning forward before he could think. Always one to contemplate the best end result, he could only focus on the incredible fact that George was indeed inviting him in. Hand mirroring George's, he touched his lips against George's almost chastely, like this reverent brush of lips was enough to be the fulfillment of years of yearning. 

When he pulled back, he could see George had closed his eyes, an oddly vulnerable expression on his face. Then George's eyes blinked open, his sharp gaze full of mirth. "I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more enthusiastic." 

"What?" Peter asked, eyes wide as he stared at George. The familiar dry tone was at odds with a mischievous glint in George's eyes and the gentle touch still lingering on Peter's neck, and he didn't know which to trust. 

"You did say you wanted me to finish what I'd started," George said. "Have you changed your mind?" 

"No." That much was certain. Nothing else made sense. Peter couldn't believe this was pity or duty or even a reward for his services, and he didn't want to ask. All he knew was that he wanted whatever George was willing to give him, and he had nothing to lose, not even his self-respect. 

He leaned forward and kissed George firmly, hand going to the back of his neck. He wasn't going to be hesitant about this, play coy like they didn't know what he wanted. Lips moving demandingly against George's, he waited for George to push him back. 

George let out a small sound as he deepened the kiss. There was just a hint of the sharp warmth of scotch that Peter could taste on George's lips, and then George was kissing him back, hands reaching out to grab his arms as if to keep him from moving away. 

Whatever finesse Peter was aiming for was gone in moments, his hands moving to touch everything, sliding over George's chest. Fingers meeting bumps of buttons beneath the slipover, he hesitated. _Seduction_ could mean so many things, and it didn't always lead to consummation, not in the strict sense of the word; he didn't want to assume George's invitation went beyond the obvious. 

Breathing heavily, Peter pushed back a little, lips leaving George's. "If you don't want this, tell me to stop." He let his touch follow the hidden row of buttons up to George's collar, fingers lingering on the knot of his tie for a moment before starting to pull it open. 

George shook his head a little. "I'm not telling you to stop," he said, reaching out to unbutton Peter's waistcoat. 

There was no need for other words. Peter knew he had no control over anything that was happening; whatever reasons George had for his actions, he could never say no to this. 

Kissing George while trying to remove his clothes proved to be harder than Peter had thought, and he slid to the edge of the seat, almost falling as he pulled the slipover over George's head. George's hands held onto him, the strength in the grip undeniable, and Peter let them guide him closer to George, until he was practically straddling his lap. 

It was more than Peter had imagined, nothing simple or innocent in the way his hands were moving under George's shirt. Despite George's words, he expected to be stopped any moment; this was too good to be real. Peter couldn't trust this was what it seemed to be, his dreams coming true, but he wasn't going to stop unless George told him to. 

Peter mouthed the side of George's jaw. "Jesus, George! I've wanted this for so long..." Ashamed of the almost broken way it came out, he swallowed the rest of the words, kissing George instead. 

The expression on George's face was incredulous, his eyes sharp and questioning like he couldn't quite believe Peter's desire was genuine. 

It made Peter want to curse out loud. Instead, he leaned forward for another kiss and muttered, "Please." He'd known all along he might end up begging. 

George closed his eyes, hands already pulling Peter's shirt out of his trousers and then moving up his back, tracing bare skin. It made Peter arch into the touch, body pressed against George, and then he froze. 

Desire thrumming through his body, he couldn't deny his need for this, for George. From the first hesitant kiss on he'd been yearning for touch, for release, and now George could feel that need too, pressing insistently against his thigh. There was no going back from this. 

Peter opened his mouth to say something, anything, and then could only gape as George reached out for his trousers. Eyes wide, Peter watched George's hands work open his fly. There was no hesitation when George touched him, and he didn't know what that meant, didn't really care, because a strong hand was holding him, pulling him out, and he was so hard he ached. 

"So..." George looked absolutely gorgeous with his cheeks slightly flushed. There was wariness in his gaze, mingled with something unreadable. "Was this what you wanted?" 

"George," Peter said, shaking his head. He could only imagine what George was thinking, overthinking, and maybe it was impossible for men in their profession to do anything without questioning it first. He didn't want to think about what the question suggested. " _Please_." Closing his eyes, he leaned forward for another messy kiss, his desperate sounds of need suffocating against George's mouth when George finally moved his hand. 

It was glorious and agonizing at the same time, George's hand moving slow and steady. Peter couldn't help thrusting into it, hips moving just a little, constricted by his trousers. He reached down to push his trousers down a bit, not willing to move far enough to actually try to squirm out of them, hands brushing against George's. Groaning against George's kiss, he reached lower and then stopped, mouth going slack. 

"Oh." 

George was hard. For him. It was almost enough for Peter to let go altogether. 

"You want me." Almost a question, it slipped out all too easily. 

"Yes," George said simply, admitting the obvious. He'd stilled his hand, but the touch was still there. 

Peter swallowed. Of course George wouldn't do this if he wasn't at least agreeable to the whole thing. But being agreeable and wanting this weren't the same, not even close. One made this a chore, even if it wasn't an unpleasant one. But this? God! 

So many things Peter wanted to do with George, and he didn't know if he would ever have another chance with him. There wasn't time for everything, he was too far gone to wait for long or _move_ , but he wasn't going to let this opportunity pass. He needed skin on skin, mirroring George's touch on his own flesh, but touching wasn't enough, not even when he heard George let out a pleased sound. 

He kissed George's lips, a soft almost gentle touch. Then he pulled away, hating the loss of the taste immediately. He wanted to ask, maybe explain, but the need was almost choking him. 

It was desire, but more than just lust; the thing described in songs and sonnets. Showing George exactly what he meant to him was worth having his heart break later on. 

Peter slid to his knees on the hard floor, smiling a little as he heard George make a questioning sound. George's hand reached out for him, as if to stop him, and he choked out, "Let me," as he settled down, palm sliding up George's thigh. "Let me." He didn't know if he was asking or commanding. 

For a moment, George just stared at him, looking stunned like this had never crossed his mind. 

"Yes." 

Peter watched his hand closing around George's erection again, the solid heat on his palm the only indicator that this was real. Mouth suddenly dry, he moved his hand, slowly at first, and then the sharply indrawn breath made him look up at George's face. 

Keeping the steady pace was impossible at the sight of George's gaze focused on him, on his hand, and Peter had never seen anything like that on George's face before. Whenever there had been a glimpse of true emotion, it had been of pain and regrets, reluctant satisfaction over a job. This was _yearning_ , almost painfully honest. 

Too many truths, too many emotions, and Peter leaned closer, eyes fluttering shut as he tasted slick skin. He wanted to swallow George down, wanted to make him feel good, simply wanted. 

Caught between his own need and the need to show exactly how much he wanted George, Peter let his tongue move in circles, focusing on the taste and the texture even as his hand moved to push his own trousers down so he could grab himself. He could hear needy whining noises escape his own throat, overwhelmed. 

George's hand landed on his head, fingers clumsy as they combed through his hair before settling for a loose grip. He was murmuring something too low for Peter to hear, but it sounded encouraging. 

His cheeks hollowing as he sucked George in deeper, Peter stroke himself faster. He could feel George's thighs tremble, the hand holding onto his head tightening its hold, trying to pull him away. It was a nice gesture, but he refused to let go, needing to taste everything. When George came he was only a few pulls away from his own release, swallowing hard until he couldn't wait any longer. Letting go of George, he mouthed the skin of his thigh as he convulsed, warmth spilling over his hand. 

It was the most peaceful moment he'd experienced in years. 

"Peter..." It came out as a soft sigh, and for a moment, Peter wondered if he'd even meant to hear it. Then George said louder, "The question still stands. Was that what you wanted?" 

He was down on his knees already, so maybe the fall wouldn't hurt so much. Peter swallowed hard, tongue heavy under the taste of George in his mouth, and how could he even begin to answer the question he didn't completely understand? He was fairly certain George hadn't invited him here for this; a quick shag on the sofa and then a less than cordial interview about his motives. 

"You do know it's customary to actually spend a moment or two enjoying oneself afterwards, don't you?" Peter asked, his voice more mellow than he felt. 

George blinked. 

"And I'll answer you as soon as I know what you're asking." Always quick on his feet, it was still difficult to wrap his mind around a conversation now that his body was practically thrumming with contentment. 

Seduction. It could lead to so many things, and Peter was certain George had been calculating all the variables even before he'd ever written that note to invite him in. He couldn't even resent that; the games they usually played were about the Queen and country, not about a man's heart. 

George let out a soft snort of laughter. "Even now you manage to surprise me." His lips curled into a smile, but his gaze was serious. "You wanted this and now you've had it. Was that all that you wanted?" 

It was the definition Peter had hoped for, and he didn't have to even think about the answer. "No. Not all that I wanted." 

He wouldn't say the words out loud; he was certain the empty promise engraved on a silver lighter had made them as meaningless as polite but fake smiles to George. But God, how could he _not_ love this man? 

Most people might not really see George Smiley, but he had, from the beginning. He'd admired George for years, fancied him even longer than that. It wasn't until he'd watched the man leave the Circus for good that he realized it might be more than that. Even so, it had taken the time Peter had spent by George's side trying to flush out the mole to acknowledge his feelings as love. Nothing that had happened had changed the way he felt for George. 

Closing his eyes, Peter leaned sideways, cheek resting on George's thigh. The floor under his knees was hard and it wasn't a very comfortable position he was kneeling in, but he didn't want to move. He could still taste George, smell him, and he was going to linger here as long as he could. 

A hand touched the back of his head, a careful, almost hesitant caress. "I'm seeing Oliver first thing Monday morning." 

Peter blinked his eyes open. Though he still didn't know what to expect from George, this wasn't what he thought he would hear right now. "Oh?" 

"Yes." George's touch was still gentle on his head, his voice unreadable. "Concerning a job offer I was made. A new position at the Circus." 

Oh God! 

Peter didn't move. It was like this was the one final piece he'd needed to finish the puzzle and see the whole picture right in front of him, and yet it made no sense. There was only one position Oliver Lacon would offer George, and that meant come Monday things at work would truly change. A dream come true, when he'd never dared to even imagine anything as perfect as this. 

At the same time it made him feel like he'd just been shot. "I..." What a sad moment to have his voice betray him so completely. Swallowing, Peter tried again. "I should probably congratulate you then." Better. He sounded calm and composed. He still couldn't look up. 

"Yes," George said simply. "I don't think I can decline the offer." 

Peter knew that, and ironically it was the exact reason he'd fallen for George in first place. It wasn't just a job or a game to George; he did what he did because he had to, out of a sense of duty, or maybe honour. 

Slowly, Peter raised his head, looking up at George, past his bared skin and rumpled clothes to his face. George's expression was more relaxed than he'd seen it in ages, maybe ever, but it revealed nothing. His hand slipped to rest on Peter's shoulder. 

Peter drew in a deep breath, realizing George was waiting for him to say something. But there was nothing to say. 

He _had_ asked for this, practically begged George to finish what he'd started ages ago. There had been no promises, and he was the fool here with his silly wishes of having a real chance with this man. A seduction and nothing more, a moment in time with a man who had been and would be his boss, who had always been worthy of Peter's loyalties and trust. 

But this.... This would change _everything_. 

"Although even if I could, I don't think I would." Lips curling up just a little, George shook his head. "After all that happened, it's still what I want to do. I have given everything to the Circus, and now that I have a choice to leave it all behind, I have to admit I don't want to give it up after all. I think I deserve this chance to make things right. Change what is wrong with all the games on the fifth floor." There was a brief pause, and then he added very quietly, "With Karla." 

Peter swallowed. He wished he could find that spark of anger inside, but he understood all too well what George was talking about. It was the same reason he went to work every day, the knowledge that he could make a difference to so many people's lives. 

How else could George choose? 

"But I think..." 

There was a moment of hesitation, George's words dying into the quiet of the room. Peter breathed in the lingering scent of lust, clinging to that reminder of what they'd shared was real. 

George's hand lifted slowly, hesitating before it touched Peter's head again, fingers combing through Peter's hair. "I think I deserve to have this as well. If you'll let me have it." 

"Yes." Peter didn't have to even think, the word escaping him without hesitation. 

Oh God, he wanted to say so many things to George right now; how George deserved this, deserved to be loved and _happy_. Peter understood loyalty and he understood love and he wanted to swear he would never let George down. This could be what he'd never been able to find with anyone else. This could be _everything_. Straightening his back, he leaned forward to wrap his arms around George in an awkward hug. There was nothing else to say but to repeat a half strangled, "Yes." 

"Shouldn't you at least ask for more definitions of what I'm proposing before agreeing to it?" George asked, voice just a little bit too even and calm. 

What was there to ask? "I don't need to ask for definitions, George. I want whatever you're willing to share with me." Peter smiled. "I doubt you are looking for just a convenient shag here." 

George's breath was hot on his cheek, lips barely brushing his skin. "Peter, you know what that means. You'll never..." 

"Yes." Peter was never going to be able to show his feelings openly, outside this house, but he was used to secrecy and hiding. 

"It will be dangerous," George warned. 

Nothing new there. "Like our lives aren't dangerous already," Peter muttered. "I know." 

" _Peter_." 

Squeezing tight, Peter repeated, "I _know_ , George. I know." He'd never rise in the ranks while George was the head of the Circus. Maybe not even after that. He'd be forever branded as Smiley's man. Choosing to pursue intimacy with any man, not to mention the boss meant he would have to watch his every step, hide everything he felt from even his closest friends. Nothing he hadn't been doing for years now. 

He was willing to accept any hardship the future brought, as long as he could have this. 

"I've been following you like a faithful shadow for weeks now." He lifted his head so he could mutter the rest straight in George's ear. "Driving you around the city, gathering information for you. Trying to hide my schoolboy crush." 

George actually snorted at that, his hand brushing up Peter's back. 

"That won't change, no matter how I spend my evenings. I look after my people and hope someone at the top floor looks after the rest of us. I'm not that ambitious, George. I can make my own choices." 

"I know," George muttered. "And I trust you to make the right ones." 

Peter kissed the side of George's neck, smiling a little. He knew George was a master of words, so it was quite intentional he'd mention trust. A declaration far sweeter than any terms of endearment, for it was quiet and felt honest. Real. "I will. And I trust you too." 

He couldn't think of anyone deserving his trust more. Maybe one day George would be ready to hear about his love as well. 

A hand touched the back of his head, careful, almost hesitant. "It's getting late," George said, voice barely above a whisper. Then he let out a rusty chuckle, shaking his head. "Polite fiction." 

Peter had to agree. It was still light outside, people probably traveling home from work. "Old habit?" 

"Yes," George muttered. "What I mean to ask is, will you stay the night?" 

No need to hesitate even for a show. They both knew the answer already, and it didn't matter if the question was about tonight or any night. Every single night. 

Peter smiled. "Yes." 


End file.
